The Neverloving Dead (Haunted Hearts)

CHAPTER 8

THE FRAILTY OF FLESH

GETHIN

I t helped that Stuart’s prick was lovely, Gethin thought as he tore his gaze from Patrick. Not that Gethin hadn’t noticed it before – he’d lived here for three bloody years; it was hard not to. Only now he was bending for it, the other ghost’s judgements doubtless boring into him as he went, it felt like a proper relief. A boon. It helped, too, that he’d been getting practice with Patrick, overcoming at least some of the aversion his killer had left him with.

Patrick was still pretty standoffish, but he’d been surprisingly good about quite a lot of stuff – helpful, actually – though Gethin wasn’t totally sure what he was doing now: why he’d been telling him to suck Stuart off one minute, then telling him not to the next. Patrick did all sorts of things he didn’t understand, though. Most of it seemed to be about getting Gethin to move on and leave him alone.

You’d think he wouldn’t help Gethin at all in that case but, fair play, he did, didn’t he? And honestly, Gethin liked the company. He missed people and he enjoyed their ‘feedings’. More than he’d let on, actually, since he was pretty sure all Patrick thought was that he was a useless twat who couldn’t do anything by himself.

How better to prove him wrong than with blowjobs?

On the other hand, right now, nothing helped as much as the fact Stuart had asked for it. Not just asked – the man had looked like he’d have got on his knees and offered kingdoms for it. Gethin couldn’t believe it. Stuart’s whole little-daddy-bear vibe would have gone down a treat at most of the clubs Gethin used to go to, but he’d seemed so... straight-laced. Everything, from the grey bedding to the square walnut furniture, to the never going out and the world’s least racy book collection had positively screamed ‘predictable’.

But crikey. His face when he’d said ‘gay ghosts’...

They did say it was the quiet ones you had to watch out for.

Stuart’s hand had stopped by now. The foreskin was back, snug behind the head. He was holding his penis at the base, tipping it to ninety degrees, face brimming with disbelief that he could possibly have got this lucky. Gethin considered spending some time licking and circling, laving it with the time and attention he’d usually spend on a cock this lush. He took Patrick’s point, though. Stuart’s energy was a bit all-over-the-shop. Gethin could hear his heart from here, practically thumping out a bossa nova. Gethin really could end up drained if he took too long.

So, instead, he opened his mouth around the tip, formed a seal and, ever so slowly, suctioned his way down, dragging the whole thing in – a strong, creeping hint for Stuart to move his hand since he wasn’t planning to stop till he got to the root.

Stuart did, gasping as if no one had ever blown him before. He was hot, so Gethin doubted it.

He widened his mouth and throat, flattening his tongue to get all the way down. He couldn’t taste or smell anything, which was probably a good thing. Less bad memories to contend with. Less nausea. The wiry pubes against his lips were good too, though: a sign he really was here, still living in some way – that it wasn’t all just being cut off in limbo with nothing to do but obsess about his murderer. As slowly as he’d gone down, he drew back, staying solid, keeping his cheeks tight. Stuart whimpered, staring at his cock like the sun was dawning from it. Gethin supposed it must look pretty incredible, if you couldn’t see anyone pulling the skin. He pushed back down.

“Blimey,” Stuart said again, dragging the word out in one long exhalation this time. Puffing it at the ceiling then staring again.

Gethin set to, repeating as the seconds lengthened into minutes, gradually speeding. Stuart’s face was a picture. Patrick had said to keep the movements steady. Gethin had always preferred the messiest fucking blowjobs imaginable, slobber everywhere, but he hadn’t been nicknamed The Hoover for nothing. He’d been told he could’ve sucked for Wales. Until his killer had ruined it for him, sex had been his happy place – he’d been good at it and that had made him feel good about himself. Valued. He hadn’t given a monkeys who’d judged him for that.

He tried not to think about it. Now wasn’t the time. Right now he was here, sucking Stuart.

In his old flat.

Stuart moaned appreciatively, eyes fixed on his dick.

Gethin deepened the action, making the man hiss in amazement. Stuart’s mouth was a perfect O. Gethin wondered what he’d think, if he knew how the ghost now sucking him off had died.

Where he’d died...

He shut his eyes, continuing the back-and-forth motion. Digging in. Locking himself against Stuart’s energy. He couldn’t get into this now, he told himself again. He had to keep his solidity, focus on what he was going to get from this. If he didn’t, Stuart would drain him in seconds, just as Patrick had said...

With his eyes closed, he realised he could barely feel the cock there – which just reminded him he was dead – so he opened them again, trying to lose himself in the gorgeous fur covering Stuart’s belly, making himself think about how much he’d enjoyed sex before his death, how much he’d enjoyed sucking men off, how he’d definitely have gone for Stuart.

Anger bubbled at everything the killer had ruined. His life, his pleasure, his bloody dignity. He thought of the police finding him with his jeans round his ankles. The killer taking the stupid five hundred quid. Spitting on him. Telling him, basically, that he’d just been a hole to fuck.

To fuck, and fuck, and fuck.

“Gethin.”

Patrick’s voice was surprisingly soft. A hand reached over Stuart and settled on Gethin’s shoulder. For a change, Patrick didn’t say anything patronising like he thought Gethin couldn’t manage, or that Gethin was buggering it all up in some way. Gethin didn’t stop. He kept going up and down, mouth stubbornly tight. Stuart was moaning and huffing in rhythm, calling out little encouragements, much more realistic than the porn he watched.

His legs widened a little, knees lifting. “Oh that’s... yes. Nnghh .”

Gethin adjusted his position, hips beside Stuart’s head so as not to get a faceful of thigh.

“Gethin. You can feed from me too.”

Still sucking deeply, Gethin looked up. Despite the warmth he’d thought he’d heard in Patrick’s tone, the grey eyes were crisp and chilly as ever. Guarded. Gethin could see why. They both knew it wouldn’t give Gethin as much as this and Patrick didn’t want it, did he? He’d made that crystal clear.

Not like Stuart.

“Please,” the man moaned. The knee on the other side, closest to Patrick, widened a bit more, exposing his arsehole. “Please,” he said again. He knew what he was about, then.

Where the bloody hell had Stuart been hiding it, Gethin wondered.

Patrick seemed to solidify where he stood, hand on Gethin’s shoulder, goggling at Stuart’s arse.

Gethin kept sucking, watching Patrick instead of Stuart, since that seemed to ease his nausea a bit, make him feel it might be Patrick he was sucking, or something like that. He wished the priest would take his cassock off. That way, Gethin could keep going and Stuart would get to his orgasm faster. He could feel the man’s energy pulling like a sodding carthorse. A vortex.

Stuart’s knee went about as wide as it could go. Patrick couldn’t have misunderstood the request: for all his subtlety, Stuart might as well be an alley cat displaying itself for every tom in the neighbourhood.

Still, though, Patrick didn’t move.

Gethin’s energy began to drift towards Stuart. He pulled it back, glaring at Patrick. Patrick’s eyes widened weirdly. Like maybe he was actually worried. About Gethin . Or something, anyway. He was so bloody confusing.

Then again, maybe he just thought Stuart wanted fucking and he was worried about losing his own energy if he came in the man. Or maybe he thought Gethin might fuck him and lose all his energy. Or that Gethin might enjoy himself too much. He did seem pretty opposed to enjoyment.

Seeing as his mouth was full, Gethin reached up to Patrick’s hand, took it off his shoulder and placed it purposefully over Stuart’s arsehole. He’d no idea what crisis of confidence Patrick was having, but if he didn’t get a move on, Gethin was going to be in proper trouble. Lush as Stuart was, Gethin could only keep bobbing up and down on his knob – resisting the drag of his energy – for so long.

Patrick’s gaze dropped to where Stuart was grinding against his hand, practically begging for something to be in him. He didn’t look like he cared what. Anything.

To Gethin’s relief, the priest crouched between Stuart’s legs. He spent a few more seconds staring at Stuart’s arsehole, stroking it with a troubled expression, then, like he was gearing up for battle, he leaned towards it, looked at Gethin and started licking.

Gethin felt an unexpected rush to his groin.

Stuart let out a grunt so long and low, he could have been a cow in labour.

Gethin had no clue why Patrick was looking at him . It was reassuring seeing him lick someone’s arsehole, though. He normally had his air of being ‘above’ that sort of thing, as if he’d even fuck from forty feet away. Certainly, whenever Gethin had sucked him off, it had felt that way.

The priest’s eyes were maddeningly opaque. Fixed on Gethin as he licked. And licked.

Stuart writhed in pleasure. Of course he did. He’d gone to sleep with an idea, and now look.

Gethin kept going, steady as you like, down to the root, up to the glans and back again, tightening over the frenulum each time, lifting Stuart’s nutsack just to watch Patrick’s tongue at the man’s ring, keeping his nausea at bay. Patrick had looked a bit tentative at first, like he’d never rimmed anyone before – which seemed unlikely, given the fact he was a two-hundred-year-old incubus – but Gethin was suddenly glad he was using his tongue and not his cock. It didn’t remind him of anything horrible.

And it looked hot as fuck.

Gethin made a sound – a daft little exhalation he hadn’t meant to make.

Patrick’s eyes glimmered a little. Gethin felt the urge to suck harder, to really knuckle down and deliver the blowjob of Stuart’s life, even though he had a feeling, from all the noises, that Stuart was already getting it. Patrick swirled his tongue, lapping deeper... rubbing... pressing... pushing in...

Now he was going at it, he looked pretty into the whole salad-tossing thing, Gethin thought. He guessed he couldn’t taste anything, any more than Gethin could but, from the expression on his face, you wouldn’t have thought that. Patrick looked absolutely sodding carnal. As filthy as anyone Gethin had ever fucked.

Eyes glued to the blowjob, Patrick pushed a couple of fingers in, wrist straining as they began stroking deep inside Stuart’s arse.

“You guys are... oh, God ,” Stuart whined.

Patrick moved his mouth to Stuart’s hairy bollocks, sucking one in as he began to brush the man’s prostate with a fucking motion. It brought their mouths close every time Gethin’s mouth hit base. Patrick was watching Gethin on Stuart’s dick like it was the best thing he’d ever seen.

After a bit, wondering if maybe Patrick was wanting a go on it, Gethin slipped off the glans, running his tongue down the top of Stuart’s shaft instead, before nibbling his way back up it, lavishing it with his tongue like he was making out with it, leaving the other side free for Patrick to lick if he wanted.

It was a good call. Patrick moved his mouth up the underside, tongue wiping and caressing hypnotically, eventually reaching the purpling cockhead. Surrounding it.

Gethin watched, feeling his own hardness growing.

The first proper hard-on he’d had since dying.

“Oh, God,” Stuart huffed again. Patrick’s fingers were stirring and fucking with confidence now, but it still wasn’t Stuart he was looking at – his arse or his cock. Gethin kissed his way back up to the head, licking just below the glans, where Patrick was focusing. Patrick backed off a little, kissing the other side of the head, offering to share...

Gethin took the offer, snogging the side closest to him, so the cock was all that separated them, trapped between their moving mouths and licking tongues. He really did feel hard. He couldn’t believe it: he’d half-thought dying had given him erectile dysfunction.

“Holy...” Stuart crooned as Gethin’s mouth closed over the head again. “That feels...” Gethin had no idea if he meant his cock or his arse. Either had to feel pretty good right now. “I’m... nnghhhh ... I’m...”

That much was obvious. Stuart couldn’t have stopped himself coming with a plug and a hammer. Something seared through the man, dragging Gethin’s energy with it like a tide retreating. There was an instant in which Gethin very nearly panicked, then the man stifled a cry and sprayed like a burst pipe, exploding it all back out again.

Gethin had never experienced anything like it. It was fantastic – a bounty of energy ballooning into his mouth like a summer’s day. He could’ve bathed in it. Instead, he turned his head sideways, sharing as much as possible with Patrick, who was still fucking Stuart with his two fingers, stroking every bit of come from the man, propelling it from him in little jets. Stuart was practically crying with joy. Gethin and Patrick worked together, making sure nothing escaped – that every drop of both come and energy went to one or other of them.

It meant a lot of jostling with their tongues, licking each other’s lips as much as Stuart’s cockhead, pressing gradually closer, Patrick’s free hand on the back of Gethin’s head as Gethin lit with the first fresh sperm he’d drunk since he’d died. Stuart’s cock slipped away beneath them and Patrick licked deeper, wiping Stuart’s come over the roof of Gethin’s mouth, starting to lap at it.

Gethin found his own hand on the back of Patrick’s neck, pulling him nearer over the top of Stuart’s dick, pushing his tongue around Patrick’s, wanting suddenly to explore every bit of the space, to discover everything about it, to lose himself in it. It felt incredible. Stuart’s energy seemed to flow between them – trapped, bouncing around, slowly absorbing.

Patrick pulled his fingers from Stuart’s arse and fed them into Gethin’s mouth. Even those seemed to carry some of the energy. Gethin supposed it had been a prostate orgasm.

Patrick broke off, watching him suck his fingers.

Gethin really went for it – since Patrick looked hotter than he’d ever looked: not priestly at all, but dirty as a farmhand. A tall, pale, serious-looking farmhand in a robe. Feeding him arse-fingers.

It was thrilling. The energy just seemed to spread and spread, filling every bit of him: Patrick’s descriptions hadn’t done it justice.

Stuart laughed incredulously, as if it had been easily that good for him too. The laugh was a gorgeous rumble.

Patrick removed his fingers from Gethin’s mouth, blinking down at Stuart.

After a few seconds, he said, “Well, I think that’s given us both the meal we needed.” The tone was quite offhand, considering they’d just been licking that ‘meal’ out of each other’s mouths. “An orgasm that strong...” He didn’t finish. He just drifted upright, looking all cut-off and superior again.

Gethin stared. “What?” Even by Patrick’s standards, it was baffling. Like he wasn’t just averse to enjoyment – he was afraid of it. Either that or he felt he’d really lowered himself by doing this with Gethin.

“I’m impressed Stuart was able to manage twice in one night at his age, but I think that’s more than enough,” the priest added. Gethin couldn’t help noticing, with a certain amount of satisfaction, the huge boner tenting his cassock.

He was about to mention it when Stuart pulled himself up to a sitting position. “Thank you,” he said. “I mean, I hope that helped you both.”

He wasn’t looking at anything, of course. Just around. His hand went around his cock, hugging it – he looked like he was either reassuring it or congratulating it. Despite his previous enthusiasm and the laughter, some uncertainty had crept into his expression. “But just so you know, that was...” He cleared his throat. “Well, it sounds a bit... That was the best sex I’ve ever had.”

Gethin might not have worried if it hadn’t been for the uncertainty. He’d enjoyed it after all, even if Patrick hadn’t; and he’d proven he could do it, with Stuart of all people, who even Patrick had said was the best possible person for it, since the man lived here. He’d do it again, if he got the chance – he could feel how much Stuart had given him: he felt absolutely amazing.

Amazing, except for whatever was now crossing Stuart’s face...

“Eye-opening,” the man added, nodding at his own words. Gethin didn’t think he meant because they were all men.

“Move back,” Patrick said. The coldness had gone.

Gethin looked hard at Stuart: at the faintly uncomfortable look on the man’s face. As if it were only now occurring to him that he’d just had sex with– irritably, Gethin pushed the thought away.

He’d had sex with Gethin and Patrick. That was all.

He couldn’t hold the thought back, though.

Stuart had had sex with dead men.

Horror pulsed through Gethin. Nausea.

Not at Stuart. At himself. Again, he tried to squash it.

Stuart chuckled tensely.

“Gethin,” Patrick said.

This had nothing to do with what had happened to him, he told himself. It was totally different. The opposite, in fact: Stuart had wanted what was alive about Gethin and Patrick, and he’d asked and said bloody ‘thank you’ after, hadn’t he? Panic seemed to solidify Gethin’s form more – nothing Stuart would see, but enough that Gethin knew he’d begin to drain if he didn’t calm down.

His heart couldn’t pound. His skin couldn’t sweat. He couldn’t hyperventilate. He couldn’t faint or soil himself or jump to his death. But he felt like all those things were happening.

He stood up straight, walking himself backwards as Patrick had instructed. Away.

“Gethin?”

What more did the priest want? He’d moved off, hadn’t he?

Willing the horrible sodding nausea away, he backed off further, towards the cwtch wall. Patrick was right: he had to get away, he decided. Fully away. Put himself somewhere quiet and... actually that was the last thing he needed: the space behind the wall was death, wasn’t it? Or his death, anyway. Total fucking silence and emptiness. No one anywhere. He turned in the opposite direction, towards the bookshelves and Stuart’s door. His old door. What he needed was to be around people, somewhere like Gayles , where the atmosphere felt free and alive . It was exactly why he’d loved the place before his death – why he’d taken the job there when Jonno had offered it.

“Gethin?” Patrick again. He was standing by the door, like he’d anticipated Gethin might leave. “You need to calm down. Stuart’s fine. He’s smiling again. Look.”

And he especially needed to be away from Patrick, he thought. The man was bewildering. They’d just been licking jizz out of each other’s mouths and now – well now he didn’t have a clue what. He lunged for the bookshelf wall beside him, forgetting he was still solid, careening into the shelves. Books tumbled everywhere.

“Gethin, calm down.” Patrick was holding up his hands in that same way he had the first night they’d met – the way that had bothered Gethin for some reason...

Just as it had bothered him when Patrick had treated him like he didn’t matter just now. Afterwards. Again.

His form flickered. “Sodding, fucking...” he mumbled, fumbling automatically to pick up the books and put them back. It didn’t work – he half-lifted a couple, then they fell straight through his hands, thumping on Stuart’s posh wooden floor, some landing shut, others open, probably with their bloody pages bent. God in Hell, he was fucking everything up.

He focused on trying to shut the books, while Patrick hovered, apparently unsure whether to touch Gethin or not. Gethin managed to close Font Valuation and History of Catholic Paraphernalia , but the reams of auction legislation were too heavy, as was another book which seemed to just be photos of church furniture. Honestly, Stuart was a good-looking guy, but his taste in books was dreadful.

Fuck it , he thought. He couldn’t pick them up. Patrick could do it, or Stuart could, later. “I have to get out of here,” he said. “Get some fresh air, catch my breath.”

He realised how stupid the words were, even as he said them.

With a sob of frustration, he tried one last time with the books, succeeding in wafting a single page in the furniture book.

“Gethin, if you’re worried about Stuart, look at him.”

Stuart was walking over, calling apologies out, hands held up in surrender as he stared at the books, looking a bit concerned actually – probably worried his ‘friendly’ sex ghosts might in fact be violent poltergeists.

Patrick tutted, putting a hand in front of Gethin like he could stop Stuart walking straight through both of them. “Gethin, go to the cwtch. You’re too upset to be near a living person.”

Gethin this, Gethin that. Like, he did need to calm down – he got that. His heart wasn’t even there and it was banging like a bag of rabbits. His throat was so painful it felt like it might start bleeding all over again. He huffed, rubbing it, staring down at the mess of open pages he’d left. The five hundred quid appeared on the book of church furniture. A black spot of blood dripped from his throat, landing on one of the twenties with a loud, papery splat probably only he could hear.

Stuart crouched, beginning to gather the books, to close the remaining ones, reaching...

His hand landed on the book of furniture, Passing through the wad of twenties.

And Gethin saw it.

Not the hand. Not the money. Not even the blood.

Without so much as a thought, his foot shot forwards, pinning the page. Stopping Stuart.

Stuart wiggled the book a bit. To no avail. Gethin couldn’t believe what he was seeing.

He leaned closer, though he hardly needed to. The photo was as ambiguous as his own mother.

A wooden confessional booth.

Just that, opposite a page of information about booth history.

Gethin didn’t recognise the booth. The booth itself hadn’t been what had stopped him. It was what was carved above the booth – in bold letters that formed a heading along its entire side:

Whatever through the frailty of flesh be committed through human interaction...

The rest continued onto a new side, illegible in the photo.

Patrick was following his gaze. Stuart stopped trying to wiggle the book free and began frowning at it.

They were all looking at it.

“That’s what the bloody killer said to Matt,” Gethin breathed. “Those words... ‘The frailty of flesh’.”

Patrick stared down at it. After a bit, he said, “Well, fuck.”

Gethin looked at him instead. For once the grey eyes weren’t cold or distant. They were wide, horrified. And angry . That was a surprise. Patrick looked irritable a lot . But never angry. Not like this.

Gethin took his foot off the book. Stuart set it to one side, still frowning at it, probably thinking his ghost housemates had been trying to send him a message. That it was all to do with how he was meant to ‘help’ them. He began setting the rest of the books back on the shelf. Patrick pulled Gethin away.

“Absolve, we ask, O Lord, the soul of your servant,” he said, “so that dead to the world he may live for You. And whatever through the frailty of flesh he committed through human interaction, wipe away by the forgiveness of Your most merciful piety. Through Christ our Lord. Amen.”

Gethin swallowed, trying to dislodge the feeling of the car key in his gullet. “And what the sodding heck is that?”

“The Prayer of Absolution for the departed.” He looked no less angry. He lifted his eyebrows. “It absolves people of sin when they die. So they don’t end up like me. Damned for eternity.”

“You’ve been here two hundred years because a prayer wasn’t said?” And more to the point, “Why would Matt ... He hadn’t done a bloody thing wrong, Patrick, you didn’t meet–.”

“Gethin,” Patrick interrupted, looking at Gethin really intensely. “Your murderer is a priest .”

“He’s... But why would a...?” Slowly, though, Patrick’s words seemed to creep in – to form themselves into some sort of sense. He stared back at the book. It was closed now, stacked atop the other books Stuart was returning to their shelf. It wasn’t just what the killer had said to Matt, but the smell of damp stone, Gethin’s own recurring sense of the killer punishing himself somehow, even the fact Patrick had never seen him: Patrick had told him the first time they’d ever met: he avoided churches.

And if that’s where the killer was...

“Gethin.” Patrick’s hand landed on his arm. “That means we can find him.”

His expression was really weird again.

Almost like he didn’t want to.